


Worse

by Kedavranox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedavranox/pseuds/Kedavranox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry tries to tell her not to cry, that he’s fine, he just needs a little patching up, but instead he coughs and there’s blood on his lips.<br/>Sequel to <a href="http://kedavranox.livejournal.com/54069.html">Better</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worse

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write something angsty just for fun. This is a sequel to [Better](http://kedavranox.livejournal.com/54069.html). You should probably read that drabble before attempting to read this ficlet, or you won't know what's going on.Thanks to [](http://firethesound.livejournal.com/profile)[**firethesound**](http://firethesound.livejournal.com/) for flailing with me and giving this a once over. :)

  
**Worse**   


 

No one else is home.

Ginny is on tour. Blaise took a few days off to join her. Ron and Hermione said something about visiting Hermione’s parents. Draco…

Draco could be anywhere. He hasn’t spoken to Harry in weeks.

There’s another loud bang at the door. The wood of the doorframe creaks. Harry winces and closes his eyes. He can’t stand upright anymore, so he drops down to his hands and knees. Something inside him aches, it burns hot with pain. It isn’t his ribs this time. This time it feels deeper.

Another thud at the door. ‘Harry, open the fucking door!’

Harry wipes the blood from his nose on his sleeve and rolls onto his back, crying out softly from another a jolt of searing pain.

The door rattles. ‘Harry… come on. I’ll splinch myself if I try to Apparate in there.’

If Harry could reach his wand he would put up a silencing charm or something, but his wand is in his boot and it’s agony to even breathe, much less to bend over and grab it.

A knock at the door sounds again, this time softer. ‘Harry, babe. I’m sorry. You know I get jealous sometimes.’

Harry scoffs.

Jealous is understatement. Harry only got a few feeble swigs in before Ian had him on the ground this time.

‘Babe, I just want to make sure you’re okay.’

Harry closes his eyes. No, he is _not_ okay.

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

There’s another harsh kick on the door and Harry startles awake, unsure of how long he’d been passed out.

‘Fuck you, Harry!’ Ian says from the other side. ‘You broke my nose, too you know. _Fucker_. I’m bleeding everywhere.’

Harry finally shifts and reaches for his wand. It hurts. Everything hurts.

He unlocks the front door and Ian tumbles in, caught unawares. His jet black hair is damp from sweat, his nose is bleeding, and his pale blue eyes are wide. He closes the door behind him and sinks to his knees beside Harry, his hands hovering uncertainly.

‘Fuck, Harry, I’m so sorry.’

Harry grunts and then he coughs wetly. There a metallic tinge in his mouth. Ian touches his hair and Harry rolls to his side and pushes himself up.

He almost passes out from the pain as he leans his back against the arm of sofa. Ian sits opposite him, on the floor. His shirts is stained with blood. They stare wordlessly at each other, until Ian reaches for him and Harry turns his face away.

‘We can’t do this anymore.’

‘Harry, I’m sorry.’

Harry sighs. ‘We’re shit together. I can’t…’

Ian touches his knee. ‘Come on, Harry, we had a fight. We always fight.’ Ian makes slow, soothing circles with his fingertips on Harry’s knee. ‘It’s the way we are, babe. Then we move on, we fuck and we forget about it.’

Harry doesn’t look at him, and Ian drops his hand and sighs. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Don’t make this bigger than it is.’

‘Ian, you just kicked me in the stomach for ten minutes. If I could move, I’d hex you right now.’

‘I’m sorry, all right? I’m not perfect. But I love you. We love each other.’

Ian pushes away a stray strand of hair away from Harry’s eyes and leans forward, pacing a kiss on the corner of Harry’s mouth, another on Harry’s Cupid’s bow, and then he coaxes Harry’s mouth open with his lips and tongue.

Harry lets him; he lets his head drops against the sofa and Ian moves closer, cupping Harry’s face and deepening the kiss.

Ian smells like aftershave and Firewhisky. Harry pulls away slightly, but Ian still kisses him. When Harry turns his face away, Ian’s lips trail along his neck.

‘Don’t ruin it, Harry,’ he murmurs between kisses.

Harry threads his fingers in Ian’s thick hair, so much silkier than his own. He curls his fingers, pulling at Ian’s hair until he lifts his head up. ‘I don’t love you,’ he says softly. ‘You know I don’t.’

Ian’s expression flickers. ‘You do.’

‘I don’t. You’ve always known. That’s why you hate seeing me with someone else. That’s why you want to kick my face in.’

Harry tightens his fist in Ian’s hair until it’s taught in his grip. A muscle in Ian’s jaw twitches and his expression hardens. He wrenches his head away and then stumbles upward, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve.

For the briefest of moments, his expression is unguarded, his blue eyes showing the hurt there, the man beneath the mask, but then his expression is guarded again, hard and cold. He gives a short, bitter laugh.

‘Fuck you, Harry,’ he says. ‘You’re pathetic, still hung up on a prick who chucked your arse to the curb the first chance he got.’

A pinprick of a different kind of pain stabs in Harry’s chest. ‘Don’t talk about him.’

Ian kicks out with his foot, but Harry catches it before he can make contact with his chest again. Harry’s wand rolls away, beneath the sofa.

‘You’re pathetic,’ Ian repeats.

A fresh wave of pain bursts in Harry’s side as Ian gets his leg free and kicks Harry soundly in the ribs.

‘Ian stop it! It’s over, just fuck off.’

He does, but not before he gives Harry one last vicious kick in the stomach, and Harry doubles over weakly gasping from the pain. He watches the back of Ian’s boots float away and only dimly registers the slamming of the front door.

Harry spits a wad of blood onto Hermione’s beige carpet. He tries to reach for his wand beneath the sofa, but the burst of pain from his abdomen renders him completely motionless as his head drops the floor with a _thunk_. Blackness spreads across his vision.

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

Gentle hands touch his shoulder and Harry’s eyelids flutter open. ‘Ron! Oh God, I think he’s bleeding.’

Hermione tries to turn him over, and Harry whimpers so loudly that it reverberates though their small living room.

‘Don’t move him,’ Ron says, his voice faint. ‘I’ll get Malfoy.’

There’s a sharp crack of Apparition and there’s the shuffling sound of Hermione crawling around him so she can see his face. She touches his hair softly. ‘Oh, Harry. Harry.’ Tears flow freely down her cheeks. Harry tries to tell her not to cry, that he’s fine, he just needs a little patching up, but instead he coughs and there’s blood on his lips.

It brings a fresh wave of tears from Hermione, but then she seems to gather herself and pulls out her wand. Harry feels a Triage spell working through him. Strange that he should know exactly what it feels like, where the magic begins and ends. He’s been here before. So many times.

This is the last.

He reaches for Hermione’s arm. ‘No, no. Stay still Harry.’

‘The wards,’ Harry say. ‘Take him off.’

Hermione freezes her wand movements and her hands drop into her lap. She looks at him for a moment and he nods. ‘Do it.’

With a soft huff of air, she invokes the charm that will remove Ian’s magical signature from the wards, baring him entry into the flat. All the times they fought, he never went as far as to bar Ian from the flat. He hopes she understands what it means. That he’s finished. That it’s over for real this time.

When she finishes, she smiles at him faintly, but she can see in her eyes, that she’s not quite convinced. She doesn’t trust he means it, and he can’t blame her.

With the crack of Apparition, both Draco and Ron appear. Draco is in his lime green robes, a quill behind his ear, his hair a terrible mess. His expression is inscrutable. Ron stands back with his arms folded across his chest, a muscle working in his jaw. He looks as though he’s barely holding himself back from yelling at someone or hitting something.

Draco crouches beside Harry with one knee bent, the other on the floor, he casts a more advanced version of the spell Hermione did, along with other things Harry’s not sure about.

But he’s so, so tired. He closes his eyes just for a second, but then Draco is slapping his face repeatedly and Harry’s eyes flutter open again.

Draco looks down at him dispassionately. ‘Wake up.’

He shines his wand tip in Harry’s eyes and Harry blinks rapidly.

‘Don’t do that again,’ Draco says. ‘Stay awake if you want me to help you.’

Harry tries to move, but Draco puts a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t move either.’

Draco looks across to Hermione. ‘Would you get me some blankets and cast a warming charm on them, please? A subtle one.’

Hermione nods and wipes her cheeks then she runs off up the stairs to her bedroom.

Draco glances over at Ron. ‘Weasley, maybe you should go take a walk,’ he says.

When Ron doesn’t move, Draco looks at him again. ‘Ron,’ he says. ‘Go.’

Ron stays for a moment longer, and then, in an explosive movement, turns on his heel and walks out the door.

Draco looks down at Harry, and he casts some kind of cushioning spell beneath him so that it’s as if he’s in bed instead of on the wooden floor of their sitting room.

He slits Harry’s shirt open with a spell, and his eyes skim over the bruising on Harry’s stomach and ribs.

Draco’s Adams apple bobs, and then he gets to work, casting various spells that leave Harry’s skin feeling weirdly tight. His insides feel like they’re being carefully rearranged, but the pain has dissipated significantly.

Draco works quietly and stoically, at one point leaning back to pluck from the air a few glass jars he Summoned from the bathroom. He opens the cap and smoothes a thick white paste gently into Harry’s tender skin. When Harry jumps once, Draco looks up and finally makes some kind of eye contact, though his gaze is brief and utterly closed. Draco’s forehead creases as he studies Harry’s abdomen.

‘Did I hurt you?’

It’s the same detached voice he uses for all his patients. Harry shakes his head.

Draco’s eyes flick up to Harry’s face briefly again, and then he caps his jar and sits back a little.

He looks up at the staircase. ‘Hermione’s probably sobbing into her pillow right now,’ he says. ‘Thankfully I didn’t really need those blankets.’

‘Draco—’

Draco holds up a hand. ‘ _Don’t_. Harry just don’t.’

Harry closes his mouth.

‘Do you want to know how many organs were bruised? Which ones were ruptured? How close he was to killing you this time? Or shall I save it for the next time they come fetch me to patch you up.’

Harry doesn’t answer, and he suspects Draco doesn’t want to hear it anyway.

Draco stands up, pulls off his robes and drops it into a heap on the ground, before pushing up the sleeves of his grey shirt beneath. He points his wand at Harry and says. ‘Don’t move,’ before gently levitating him onto the sofa.

‘I had to find someone to take my shift,’ he says, as he casts an enlarging and cushioning charm to the couch as well. He lowers his wand arm, not looking at Harry as he continues. ‘I won’t keep doing this, Harry. Next time, you can find your way to St. Mungo’s on your own. Have someone else see you like this. I’m _done_.’

His voice wavers on his lasts words and his gaze flicks up to Harry’s face again. He looks on the verge of saying something else, but Hermione comes bounding down the stairs, her face puffy and red, her expression forced bright.

‘Blankets,’ she says holding them out.

Draco looks up at her and then at Harry. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Can you just help him out of those clothes and set the blanket across his chest. I’ll be right back.’

Harry follows Draco’s retreating figure with his eyes until he’s out of sight and Draco thunders up the stairs, his glass jars and vials following him dutifully with small clanking and clamouring sounds. The door to the upstairs loo opens and shuts.

He looks at Hermione, and then with a small smile she gently removes his shirt and then places the blanket over him.

‘Harry—’

They both jump at the sound of the first smash of glass from upstairs. There’s a second loud crash, and Hermione’s gaze flicks to the staircase. The now constant sounds of smashing glass and heavy thuds, the sounds of a fist hitting the wall and finally, Draco’s anguished snarls rip through their small flat.

Hermione puts her hand over her mouth. ‘I should go…’

‘Leave him,’ Ron’s voice says from the doorway. They both look over to him. He looks tired, but less wound up than he was before. He closes the door behind him, his gaze still fixed on the staircase.

Suddenly the sounds from upstairs stop, followed by a single thud, and Harry closes his eyes.

He’s never been around to see it before, never faced the aftermath of one of his and Ian’s fights — never actually _seen_ the toll it takes on his friends.

He squeezes Hermione’s hand. ‘It’s over this time. Finished.’ He looks up at Ron. ‘I swear.’

Ron clenches his jaw. Then he gives Harry one single nod. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Because, if I see his face here again…’

‘You won’t.’

Ron looks over to Hermione and his gaze softens. ‘Come here,’ he says. ‘You need some rest.’

Hermione stands and drops a kiss on Harry’s forehead before following Ron up the stairs. She dims the lights with her wand and Harry closes his eyes, waiting to hear Draco’s footsteps when he comes down the stairs again.

 

He never does.


End file.
